Shadow
by tyvian
Summary: And as the orange light pools in her hands, she can't help but wonder. -AnakinPadmé, Episode III-


**A/n:** After such an absence on the site, this is my first piece in a while. It's summer. I'm not supposed to be busy. Either way, it's recommended that you listen to "Across the Stars" by the wondrous John Williams whilst you read. Slight AU.

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**Shadow**

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She watches silently as the last rays of the sun slip away. For a while now, she has been at a loss as to what to think.

With everything that is happening, lack of peaceful things to think on is not surprising; but it is only now that she has resigned herself to sitting quietly here, with her hands settled on her lap and her expression schooled – even though it has been long since she has done anything as Queen, her training remains with her. The importance of retaining a calm exterior never leaves her. She recalls the harshness of one of her tutors, a woman whose name has slipped her mind but whose sharp rejoinders and gleaming, tiny eyes have never left her. _Show nothing, change nothing, remember everything!_ the slip of a humanoid would say, rapping a thin stick of metal against Padmé's desk, only scant inches away from her fingers.

Padmé can still hear his voice, echoing in some distant region of her mind, saying, "Sometimes I don't know what you're thinking." A secret, secret part of her hates to admit that there are moments when she is relieved that it is so, because she's not sure that she wants Anakin to know the fears that creep over her.

There have been nights when she stays up, propped up against the headboard of her bed, rapt in soundless contemplation. She thinks about their child, the next day, him and her, the Jedi, the senate; she looks back and wonders if what she has done was right. Her eyes trail towards him more often than not on those nights and she observes as he breathes, even and deep. The times which he can tell she's awake, he turns sleepily on his side and draws her close, and he takes over the role of warding off nightmares. She half-drifts off to the warm feeling of him against her back, and she finds herself trying to look into tomorrow and the day after that.

From her earliest years, she was taught the significance and magnitude of considering what sort of consequences present actions would have in the near future. For the first time in her life, she cannot predict the outcome or even make an educated, reliable guess about it. It makes her feel as though the floor has crumbled beneath her feet. She has been around those who wear masks all her life: she wears one too, when it's needed, but it's only now that she cannot identify those who have the masks in their possession.

There are terrifying moments when the Senator's smile seems to be something dark and unfathomable, and the kind eyes leer out at her mercilessly, transformed into burning pits that harbor no penitence. Perhaps it's just her, but her instinct has never proved her wrong before – and it tells her to be wary. So she is.

And as the orange light pools in her hands, she can't help but wonder. Padmé remembers crouching next to someone confused and lost, someone who cannot decide whether to recoil from or revel in his power; someone that she has, by a twist of Fate, learned to love. His tears are clear in her memory, and she can (too easily) call to mind the unknown dread that had turned over within her heart when she saw that he was fumbling to summon any kind of remorse for the ruin he had left behind. There are, also, though she cannot dwell on it long, instants where he becomes something she cannot recognize. Even with her forgiveness and compassion, the desire for power and something beyond all conceivable boundaries is a need and a want that is incomprehensible to her.

Padmé asks herself, in those wordless spaces of time she has to herself, here in the apartment above Coruscant's bustling bulk, _What else could he want?_ He is gifted and resourceful, and has achieved more than one can hope for a Jedi at his age. She doubts that she will find the answer any time soon. Or perhaps it is there and she does not want to accept it. (_I want more_).

She reflects and tries to explain the anxiety that comes over her when she is alone, as she is now, and stares at her hands as if they would yield the response to her query. She always did take good care of herself, she thinks distantly, looking over her soft fingers with their pink nails and unmarked skin. The proof of it rests in her face and the curls of her dark hair, which rests heavy between her shoulders in a braid twined with silver. The headdress glints in the sunset light streaming through the windows, and she glances at the panoramic view of the city that will stir and continue to be awake throughout the night. It's one type of comfort, she decides; if the dark hours prove to be sleepless, she'll be able to seek the skyline of glittering, neon lights and be assured that she was not the only one waiting by a window.

Never before has she been this meditative. It's probably because of the fact that she does not have much to do: the absence of manual business (besides the senate meetings) has left her with more time than she would know what to do with. She has never been quite this unsure, either, and it does not sit right with her. Padmé has always been trained to utilize assertiveness and take action when others could not; but now, she notes, her arms moving closer to the bump barely showing beneath her dress, she has another life to think of. She is responsible for someone other than herself. It is not a new sensation, but at the same time entirely different than that of being Queen or senator. This life is of her and Anakin's making, and her love for it is already guaranteed. She briefly muses about what it would be like if the little one inherits Anakin's uncanny affinity towards machines. The image of a tiny boy tinkering with a racer makes her lips curl in a smile.

The sun is almost gone now, with only a glimmer of red lingering in the sky, and a suspicion of it gleaming off of the metallic buildings.

She thinks about when he'll return, because then she will be able to confirm that he's here and that nothing has happened (yet), and that there are more chances to be together. She remembers how he kissed her before he left: soft, because the way he pressed his lips against hers was gentle; and possessive, evident by the hand fisted in her hair and the other one grasping her shoulder. The part of Padmé which allows for daydreams likes to think that none of their partings will be wanting for a reunion, and right now that's enough.

The first shade steals into the room, and brushes against the hem of her dress. Padmé stands, and turns when she hears a lightly accented voice behind her. Would she like supper, 3PO asks her, and she smiles kindly at him answering that yes, she would love some. She follows him into the kitchen.

And as the shadows overtake the chamber, Padmé – for now – turns her back on them.


End file.
